“What am I talking about? What am I talking about? What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” The storekeeper dropped a sack of mail onto his seat and began sorting through it furiously, picking up envelopes, tossing them aside, until he found what he wanted. He held it up. “Look familiar?”

Doug shook his head dumbly. “No.”

“No?” Todd read the letter aloud. “ ‘You Christ-killing kike, we’re tired of your greasy fingers touching our fish and meat and food. How would your sheeny wife like a nice white cock up her ass?’”

Doug stared, stunned. “You don’t think I—”

“Oh, you’re telling me you didn’t do it?”

“Of course I didn’t!”

Todd looked down at the paper, reading. “ ‘Why don’t I feed your wife some real knockwurst?’”

“Todd…” Doug said.

The storekeeper spat on the ground at Doug’s feet. The expression on his face was one of intense hatred, a hatred borne of betrayal, and Doug knew that there was nothing he could say or do that could repair the damage that had been done, that could convince the storekeeper he had had nothing to do with this.

“Baby!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Crybaby!”

Doug looked up to see who had made the comment, but the faces all seemed to blur together. He noticed now that although the people were silent, they were by no means passive observers. There was anger on several faces, along with the ugly ignorant shadow of bigotry.

“Jewpussy,” a man yelled.

“Go back to where you came from,” a woman called.

Todd dropped the letter in the back seat and got into the car. He started the engine, put on his seat belt, and looked up at Doug. “I expected better from you,” he said. “I hope you’re happy.”

“I’m on your side,” Doug said, but the car was already backing up, turning around. Someone in the crowd threw a rock, and the rock hit the back fender of the departing station wagon, bouncing off. The car pulled onto the street, rounded the corner, and was gone.

Doug looked into the empty store and saw only the reflection of the crowd in the mirror. He saw faces he didn’t know on people he knew. He saw people he didn’t want to know at all.

He turned around.

“You’re on his side?” a man said, demanded.

Doug held up his middle finger. “Fuck off,” he said. He walked slowly back toward the car.

35